


Trace the Melody

by infinityonfic



Series: Thranduil and Wifey Oneshots [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3395687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinityonfic/pseuds/infinityonfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The east had yet to be lit by the early sun when a low melody rang through the halls of Mirkwood, a sugar-laced voice that reached the ears of those that had awoke, and made sleep for those that had not more wistful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trace the Melody

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by reading Fellowship of the Ring and seeing Legolas singing, realizing that that means Thranduil also sings... And well... This.

The east had yet to be lit by the early sun when a low melody rang through the halls of Mirkwood, a sugar-laced voice that reached the ears of those that had awoke, and made sleep for those that had not more wistful. Though it was quiet, the voice echoed in the large halls, harmonizing with the bubbling of the river that flowed through the kingdom.

The King did not sing with the intention of being heard; though he knew sound carried in the realm, Thranduil let himself believe that he was quiet enough. It undoubtedly dwelt in the back of his thoughts that he was heard, though the pleasure it brought him, the emptiness that it filled but for a moment, was worth it. With that in mind, he would sing only in the early morning, when most should be asleep.

No one, guard nor otherwise, dared to let him know he was heard; they wished not to be deprived of his sweet voice.

Those that had the chance to be up at the right time of the right morn would sit motionless, listening eagerly for the dulcet tones that swept past. Its rarity was such that, even though they made little noise, the elves dared not move a muscle, some even holding their breath just to hear.

It was as sweet as the berries that grew in the lush areas which remained of the old Greenwood. It was strong yet gentle, graceful as it cut the air much like his own swift blade, with accuracy that could be rivalled only by that of Legolas’ bow. Its flow was like the melodious, blessed waters of Nimrodel. It was haunting and sorrowful, a melancholy heard by none, save the early risers.

Most of the woodland folks slept through the enchantment, but mothers and workers that had to leave early to gather food always heard; it was almost an unspoken gift for those that were not credited as much as they deserved for their humble labours.

Things were different before war was waged on the lands of Angmar, before his wife fell. Those were happier days, where he sang freely with the rest of his people, and his voice would mingle with his lady’s such that even the most gifted elves stared in awe.

His voice, he thought, bore a weakness. It was far too personal with her absence, and whenever he sang he opened up a hole that was too deep, too empty to have any hope of ever being filled again. Everything always seemed less fair without her. This weakness he thought would make him lesser, and though he was never cold to his kindred, he believed it necessary to refrain from revealing his vulnerability, maintaining his assertiveness that grew harder with age.

Even so, before even the birds began their chirruping, sometimes in his own privacy he would weave tales or sing those of old, the acute ears of his people keening for more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading x


End file.
